Somebody's Father

"No."

Her words were quiet, quiet and soft and final.

The woods were cast in a forever twilight, the warmth of the afternoon sun somehow kept at bay, painting the shadows of cold leaves in far too many shades of gray. They had paused, come to a stop, here in the woods of dusk. A few steps away the great dreadsteed whuffed and paced, the glow from his hooves, the fire of his mane, the only dance of color, reds and saffron, as evening threatened in deep dark pastels through the silk shrouded trees.

"Have we ..."

She spoke in whispers, as one might in that last kind of respect. And as she did she looked down to her closed hand, feeling the bite of metal within. It should have been a cold feeling, the metal against her palm, but she couldn't comprehend it as anything but heart's blood warm.

"Have we forgotten so much Mezzy, in our striving against the Dark, in our holding against the Lich King and his Scourge, against the broken undead? Before the hearths of Valgarde, in the taverns of Valiance Keep, in the great halls Dalaran, they raise their goblets in triumph upon the heralding of our victories in Icecrown Citadel. The toasts ring out bold and strong when frozen bones, accursed sinews and the steel of the walking dead have been sent to their final rest. Have we forgotten, however, exactly what it is we are doing?"

At her shoulder the great Voidwalker kept still. Silent, a swirl of magic and dreams bound by carven metal bracers, it was always hard to determine if he truly heard, if he truly understood. She hoped, and sometimes, sometimes that just had to be enough.

"In Darkshire, in the warmth of their commons, Miss Trelayne is probably lining up the tall pewter steins, the crystal goblets of wine, to speak so well of us, to celebrate the lifting of their curse, for we have just slain the spectre of the undead Mor'Ladim."

Slowly she unfolded her hand, to look down upon the small ring she held.

"Mor'Ladim. A dull echo, a contraction of who he used to be. But someone needs to remember, Mezzy, someone does, that his name was Morgan. That he had a daughter. That her name was Sarah."

"And this is her ring."

The warlock bit her lower lip, as if, as if the slight pain was important, necessary. To remind herself that she was still alive, that she could still feel.

"Have we forgotten, in our lust for victory, in the brutal reality of this snow bound conflict, that the armies of the Scourge were not raised from whole cloth? That they did not spring like sparks from fel fires or fall from the sky like dying stars.

"Have we forgotten that each and every one of them were once one of us?

"That they were once our brothers, they were once our sisters. Daughters and mothers, sons and fathers, our husbands, our wives, our soulmates.

"That the shattered bones that lay at our feet we once called friend."

Slight fingers closed over the slim hoop of metal. Protective.

"I cannot find any reason to celebrate tonight, Mezzy.

"For is this something to be done for glory, for pride and accolades ...

"Or is it last thing we can do for those we have once cared for, because we have no other choice?"

Slowly she turned, to mount her patient dreadsteed.

"Like now.

"To place a simple golden ring upon an ill treated gave.

"To place the token of a daughter's love."

"No."

Her words were quiet, quiet and soft and final.

Gently she lay the paladin's sword upon the paladin's grave, his gift, her reward. Gentle fingers slipped over its silvered carvings, evoking a shimmer of sparkles from the magic held within. Leaving it behind, leaving it at rest.

"There's been enough death for one day."